Shall I Stay (Would It Be A Sin?)
by WinterSky101
Summary: The Apocalypse has been averted, Aziraphale's bookstore has been destroyed, and he can't see any harm in going to Crowley's for the night, not anymore. Missing scene for 1.06 (The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives). Aziraphale/Crowley.


**Title comes "Can't Help Falling In Love" by Elvis Presley.**

* * *

When Aziraphale steps onto the bus and takes a seat, he's still not quite sure where he wants it to take him. Oh, it's going to go to London, of course, despite the fact that this bus is supposed to go to Oxford, but as for _where_ in London… Crowley told him what happened to his bookshop, and even though Aziraphale can't quite bring himself to believe that's true, he also knows Crowley wouldn't lie to him, not about that. His bookshop is gone, and that means he doesn't have a place to go.

Except…

_"You can stay at my place, if you like."_

Crowley is sitting next to Aziraphale on the bus, although they've never done that before. In the past, they've always sat in different rows, one behind the other. Plausible deniability, Aziraphale always insisted; they only happened to be on the same bus. They weren't meeting there, and they certainly weren't going anywhere together. Now, however, they've just infuriated their superiors to the extent that punishment is inevitable, so there's really no point in plausible deniability anymore. There's really no point in worrying about their superiors at all. Nothing they do now is going to be as bad as preventing the Apocalypse.

_In for a penny, in for a pound,_ Aziraphale thinks wryly.

"Did you mean it?" he asks quietly, breaking the silence.

"Mean what?" Crowley asks.

"That I could stay at your place. Just for the night, until I get things settled."

Crowley's face softens, just a little. It's an expression Aziraphale is rarely allowed to see on his face, and it always feels precious whenever he is.

"You can stay as long as you like, angel."

Well, Aziraphale thinks, taking a breath that's perhaps a bit deeper than he needs, that's settled, then. He's never spent any time in Crowley's flat before, but he doesn't suppose there's any harm in it now.

* * *

The bus pulls to a stop in Mayfair, directly in front of Crowley's flat. Aziraphale thanks the confused driver profusely as they get off and discreetly miracles a twenty pound note into his wallet, as well as bestowing a small blessing to make sure he gets home safely and has pleasant dreams when he sleeps. Crowley groans and drags Aziraphale off the bus with a grumpy "come _on_, angel."

"I was being polite," Aziraphale huffs as Crowley pulls him to the door. They both seem to notice at the same moment that Crowley's hand is still wrapped around Aziraphale's wrist, and even though all of Aziraphale's layers are separating them, this is still far more contact than they've ever allowed themselves before. (1) Crowley drops Aziraphale's arm like he's been burned. Aziraphale pulls his arm back, trying to savor the last scraps of warmth from Crowley's touch before they fade away.

_(1) This is not to say they've never touched each other before (the last time they did was when Crowley shoved Aziraphale against a wall on Thursday), nor even that they've never touched each other in a non-adversarial fashion (the last time they did that was in 1941, when Crowley's fingers briefly brushed Aziraphale's when he gave him back his books). Deliberate, non-adversarial touches are rare, though, and in the past, they've always been too dangerous to risk. That may be able to change, now, and Aziraphale finds he's almost overwhelmed at the thought._

"Have you ever been to my place before?" Crowley asks, turning away and busying himself with the lock.

"Not that I recall," Aziraphale replies. "You normally come to my bookshop."

Crowley's shoulders tighten a little bit, and Aziraphale remembers once again that his bookshop is no more. It burned down while he was stuck in Heaven, and all of his treasures went up in flames. His refuge is gone. His _home_ is gone.

Well. At least he's still alive. At least Crowley is still alive. At least the Earth still exists. He can make a new bookshop, build up a new collection. It's only _things_, after all.

It still hurts.

Crowley leads him into the building and up the stairs. He unlocks his door and throws it open, and Aziraphale is immediately hit with the mingled stenches of holy water and a melted demon.

Crowley wrinkles his nose. "Eugh, that smells worse than I remembered."

"What _happened_?" Aziraphale demands. The smell is coming from a room that appears to be an office of some sort. There's a familiar tartan thermos sitting on the desk, and in the doorway is a melted heap of cloth.

"Hastur and Ligur came to drag me to Hell," Crowley explains.

Aziraphale looks down at the cloth, then back up at Crowley, eyes wide. "So this is…"

"Ligur," Crowley supplies. "Hastur didn't even get splashed, the bastard." He looks uncertainly at the thermos. "Suppose I should thank you for the holy water."

"I'm simply glad it helped," Aziraphale replies. "Allow me to…" He snaps, and every drop of holy water evaporates. Ligur's remains disappear as well, leaving the floor spotless.

Crowley grunts in thanks and heads further into the flat. After the office is a beautiful room full of plants, and Aziraphale has just opened his mouth to tell Crowley how absolutely lovely his houseplants are when Crowley hisses, "Not a _word_, angel." Aziraphale hasn't the faintest idea what _that's_ about, but he obediently doesn't speak until they reach the living room. It's very sparse, and the leather sofa doesn't look particularly comfortable. It certainly doesn't look anywhere near as comfortable as the nice, squishy couch Aziraphale has in his back room.

_Had_, he reminds himself. The couch he _had_ in his back room. The couch that must have gone up in flames when the rest of Aziraphale's bookshop did. It's not there anymore. There's nothing there anymore except a burnt-out shell, if even that much exists, and-

Aziraphale stops himself firmly and sits down on Crowley's sofa. (2) That's quite enough of _that_. Dwelling on his burnt bookshop won't change anything, and tonight ought to be a night of _celebration_. They saved the world, after all.

_(2) It's just about as uncomfortable as he expected it would be, and certainly nothing at all like Aziraphale's couch. It _is _very sleek and fashionable, though._

It's a pity they're almost definitely going to die for it.

And then Aziraphale remembers the slip of paper in his waistcoat pocket.

"Fancy a glass of wine?" Crowley asks. "Or something else alcoholic? I'm not picky."

Aziraphale hums noncommittally, pulling out the paper. It's burnt around the edges, and Aziraphale can feel soot brushing off onto his fingertips as he holds it. _"Prophecy 5004,"_ it reads. _"When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre."_

Choose your faces wisely… Is that a reference to choosing sides? No, Agnes's prophecies are normally very literal. They'll have to choose their _faces_. What does that mean? And playing with fire…

"Hellfire," Aziraphale whispers, staring down at the paper. They'll be playing with hellfire.

"Did you say something?" Crowley calls over his shoulder. "Also, any preference on what we drink? Because if you don't say something, I'm just going to go with whatever's got the highest alcohol content. I want to get _smashed_."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says slowly, "how do you expect Hell will punish you?"

Crowley doesn't turn around, but Aziraphale knows him well enough to know he's scowling. "Really don't want to think about that, angel. Why do you think I want to get smashed?"

"Indulge me," Aziraphale replies, because he knows that Crowley always does. (3) "What do you think they'll do?"

_(3) This is not something Aziraphale often lets himself think about, because it lends itself to other thoughts that an angel certainly should _not _be having, but, well… In for a penny, in for a pound, after all._

Crowley slowly turns. Even with his sunglasses on, Aziraphale can tell that his gaze gets caught in the direction of the door for a moment. He knows Crowley's thinking about a mess that used to be in the doorway to his office.

"Suppose they'll want to make sure the punishment fits the crime."

"Tit for tat," Aziraphale murmurs. "They'll use holy water."

"It'd be nice if you could sound a little more concerned," Crowley says dryly.

_Choose your faces wisely._

"Holy water won't affect me," Aziraphale says slowly. "And hellfire won't affect you."

"Who said anything about hellfire?" Crowley demands.

"My punishment," Aziraphale says. "It's going to be hellfire. And yours will be holy water."

Aziraphale really wishes Crowley weren't wearing his sunglasses, because a flicker of emotion only crosses his face for a instant before he shuts it down. Aziraphale would be able to read his eyes much better, but of course that's part of the reason Crowley wears the sunglasses in the first place. (4)

_(4) It is, on average, forty-three-point-eight percent of the reason. This percentage, however, tends to change based on how many emotions Crowley feels he's showing on his face at any time, as well as how many humans are in the area who might see his eyes and run away screaming. At the moment, it's nearly one hundred percent of the reason (ninety-eight-point-nine, to be entirely nice and accurate)._

"Right," Crowley says. "Highest alcohol content possible it is. How about absinthe?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Aziraphale asks. "Holy water won't affect me, and hellfire won't affect you."

"And what good is that going to do us?" Crowley demands. "No one's going to try to execute a demon with hellfire, or an angel with holy water."

"They will if we swap corporations."

Crowley's eyebrows rise high above his sunglasses. "If we _what_?"

"We swap," Aziraphale says, hearing the eagerness in his own voice. This can work, this will work, they're going to survive. "You wear my corporation and go to Heaven, and I wear your corporation and go to Hell."

"First," Crowley says, sounding surprisingly angry, "there's no way we can pull that off. Second, there's no way I'm letting you go to Hell."

Aziraphale feels his spine stiffen a little. "I don't think I need you to 'let me' do anything," he retorts. "I would rather not go to Hell, of course, but given that it's the only way we both survive…"

Crowley makes a rather snakelike noise of irritation. "Angel," he snaps, "thisss will never work."

"Yes, it will," Aziraphale replies primly. "We just need to make sure we bury our own essences enough that the residual energy in our corporations will block my etherealness and your occultness."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"It's not like we can really get into any worse trouble," Aziraphale retorts. "Heaven and Hell are already going to destroy us."

Crowley makes a noise that almost sounds like laughter, if laughter sounded very pained. "If you think that's the worst Hell can do, then you haven't faced Hell."

"I'm certain Hell can be imaginative and quite terrible, but I think destroying you with holy water _is_ the worst thing they could do," Aziraphale argues. "Anything else and I could come down and rescue you. I can't rescue you if they've destroyed your very essence."

Crowley gapes. For some reason, he looks like the idea of Aziraphale storming Hell to save him is a ridiculous one. Aziraphale doesn't know why. Crowley has saved him so many times over the years; is it really so absurd to think that Aziraphale might return the favor?

"Look," Crowley finally says, "I'm too tired to think about this right now. I'm going to sleep. What about you?"

Aziraphale blinks. He doesn't sleep, really, he never has (5), but… Well, he _is_ rather exhausted.

_(5) This is a bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one; Aziraphale has taken exactly three naps before. That's nothing compared to how often Crowley sleeps, so Aziraphale thinks he's justified in thinking that the amount he sleeps is negligible._

"I think I'll sleep as well," he says. "If you have a place for me."

"This way," Crowley says, leading Aziraphale down the hallway to a nondescript door. He opens it to reveal a bedroom and, taking up most of the space, a bed.

Crowley's bed is large. Expansive, even. Aziraphale is fairly certain at least five people could comfortably sleep in it, provided none of them care much about personal space. He's also fairly certain that he and Crowley could sleep in it together without having to touch at all.

But Aziraphale, to be perfectly honest, doesn't really want to care about personal space right now. He knows he can't actually still feel the warmth of Crowley's hand around his wrist, but he knows it was there, and he can't stop thinking about it. The thought of lying here with Crowley, close enough to touch, is almost intoxicating. The thought of actually _touching_… Well, if Crowley is amenable, Aziraphale would most definitely like to do so. He's been longing to do so for years, after all.

He really hopes Crowley is amenable.

"Here's the bed, then," Crowley says, gesturing unnecessarily. "Do you have pajamas?"

"Like a nightshirt?" Aziraphale asks, waving a hand and replacing his clothes with a full-length nightshirt.

Crowley raises his eyebrows. "I was thinking more like this," he says, and he replaces Aziraphale's nightshirt with a pair of soft flannel pants and an equally-soft flannel button-down shirt. They're both black, so Aziraphale gives them a stern look until they turn to a less grim tartan.

"Not everything needs to be tartan all the time," Crowley groans.

"Tartan is stylish."

"Tartan hasn't been stylish in decades."

"Just because you don't like anything that's not black-"

"Oi, I wear other colors sometimes!"

"Do you? I must have missed them. Do you occasionally dabble with dark gray? (6)"

_(6) Crowley has, on occasion, dabbled with dark gray, and a few times, he's even dabbled with red. That's about the extent of his dabbling, however. Aziraphale, who's worn basically the same thing for the past century and a half, has (in Crowley's opinion) absolutely no room to talk._

Crowley scowls, but even with his eyes hidden, Aziraphale can tell he doesn't really mean it. This is just how they communicate, and it occurs to him like a punch to the gut that, if he can't convince Crowley to agree to the swap, they'll never be able to communicate like this again. If Aziraphale can't convince Crowley to agree to the swap, it'll be the end of both of them. The thought settles in Aziraphale's chest like a stone.

"Well," Crowley says, looking at the bed and suddenly seeming much less comfortable, "if you're settled, I'll go."

Aziraphale blinks, his previous train of thought utterly derailed. "Go?"

Oh dear. Perhaps he's misread this entirely.

Now Crowley is frowning, looking confused. "Yeah? You're settled, right?"

"But where will you sleep?"

Crowley shrugs. "I can take the sofa. Or the wall. Or the ceiling. I'm not picky."

"But I've never really slept before," Aziraphale protests, aware that it's a feeble excuse. "What if I can't figure it out?"

"You're clever. You will."

Oh _dear_. It seems that, if Aziraphale wants this, he's going to have to actually _ask_ for it. And normally Crowley is so good at reading Aziraphale so he can avoid doing exactly that.

"Well," Aziraphale says, not quite sure how to begin, "if you don't mind- Although, of course, if you do, there's no obligation- But if you _did_ feel so inclined, then I had thought that, well, perhaps-"

"Spit it out, angel," Crowley says, although his tone is kinder than the words would suggest. "If you want something, ask for it."

"Would you stay? With me?"

Crowley goes very still. Aziraphale is sure his eyes are doing _something_ right now, probably something that would make it easier for Aziraphale to judge exactly what it is he's thinking, but Crowley's sunglasses are still on. Aziraphale has the urge to pull them off, but he doesn't. If Crowley wants to remove that barrier himself, Aziraphale will be very pleased, but he won't force him to do it.

"You want me to stay?"

"Well, yes," Aziraphale admits. He can't read a thing from Crowley's tone, so he has no idea if he's about to absolutely ruin everything or not. This may well be their last night, however, so there's not that much to lose. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "I'd rather like you to be here. You make me feel…" There's no word in any of Earth's many languages that quite describes it, so Aziraphale goes for the best approximation. "You make me feel safe."

A mess of emotions flickers across Crowley's face, and for what has to be the millionth time that night, Aziraphale is tempted to miracle his stupid sunglasses somewhere very far away. "I'm a demon," Crowley finally says. "I'm not safe."

"You are to me."

"If you're worried about Heaven and Hell, I think we've got a bit of time," Crowley says, his voice sounding almost desperate. "I don't think they'll come after us yet. They need to regroup, yeah? And-"

"Oh, sod it all, Crowley, that's not why I'm asking!"

"Then why _are_ you asking?"

And Aziraphale has never really been good with his own words, especially words that describe _emotions_, but since Crowley is forcing him to say what he wants…

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

"Do you remember that incident with the Nazis in 1941?"

"I kept you from getting shot," Crowley says warily. "Yeah, I remember."

"Well, you…" Aziraphale shrugs helplessly. "You saved my books. And it made me realize… I think I'd felt it for a quite a long time, but it made me _see_…"

"Angel," Crowley says, something in his voice almost frightened, "if you're going to say what I think you're going to say, you'd better mean it."

"I love you," Aziraphale says, and he's never meant anything more in his life. Crowley is his lodestone, the one thing he can always be certain of. Crowley is his soulmate in the truest sense of the word; their souls (7) are bonded in a way that goes beyond human - or even angelic - understanding. A wisp of literature comes to mind - _"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same"_ \- and Aziraphale may have his issues with the so-called romance in _Wuthering Heights_ (8), but the quote still resonates. Crowley is _his_, and Aziraphale has loved him since the Beginning and will love him until the End.

_(7) There's some debate as to whether or not demons have souls (and some about angels as well, although it's less common), but Aziraphale can't imagine for even a moment that Crowley doesn't have one._

_(8) As, he thinks, any sane person should; he doesn't even know where to start with that one. The fact that it's widely considered a romantic book is, he's certain, due to some sort of Hellish interference._

Crowley, he realizes, hasn't moved a muscle since Aziraphale's confession. "Crowley?" Aziraphale asks gently. "Are you alright?"

"Tell me you mean it," Crowley says in a small voice. "Please, angel, tell me you mean it."

"I mean it," Aziraphale says. He resists the urge to reach out and take Crowley's hands in his own. He wants to, he _aches_ to, but he won't push, not yet. "Oh, my dear, I mean it more than anything. I love you."

Crowley swallows, and slowly, he raises a hand to his glasses and takes them off. His eyes are wide and scared, but Aziraphale can see a spark of hope in them.

"Do you have any idea," he says, "how long I've wanted to hear you say that?"

"A frightfully long time, I'd imagine," Aziraphale replies. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Crowley's lips curve into a wobbly sort of smile. "I always did go too fast for you."

"Not anymore," Aziraphale says. "I'm all caught up. Actually, I think I'm rather ahead, because I've said the words, and you haven't yet."

Crowley swallows visibly. Aziraphale is about to tell him that he doesn't need to say the words if he doesn't want to when Crowley opens his mouth. "I… I love you, angel. I love you so much."

It's like a dam's been broken, because now Crowley is babbling, repeating the same three words over and over again - _I love you I love you I love you_ \- and Aziraphale, in a moment of daring, reaches out to take his hands. The contact is… well, Aziraphale would call it heavenly, except he's been in Heaven and this is much better. Crowley's eyes go wide and he looks down at their intertwined hands, then he surges forward and kisses Aziraphale.

And, oh, if Aziraphale thought holding hands was better than Heaven, then kissing isn't even on the same _plane_.

Somehow, they end up on the bed, entwined around each other so tightly it's hardly possible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Crowley is still in his clothes, and they're covered in soot and ash, but neither of them give a damn. They're _together_, and that's what matters. They're together, and Aziraphale is never going to let anything keep them apart again.

"I suppose we have to do the swap now," Crowley says in a voice so soft Aziraphale almost doesn't catch it.

"What was that?"

"We have to swap," Crowley repeats, looking up at Aziraphale. "I've finally got you, angel, and I'm not letting you go any time soon. I'm not letting you go _ever_."

Aziraphale smiles and buries his face in Crowley's hair, reveling in the casual contact. "You needn't worry about that, my dear. I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
